


of all stars the most beautiful

by girlmarauders



Category: Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: Amazon world-building, Antiope and Menalippe's getting together story, Bisexual Female Character, F/F, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 10:51:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13409691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlmarauders/pseuds/girlmarauders
Summary: "It was at Smyrna that Menalippe, who had slain Telamon at the Battle of the Boar, who had been blessed by Artemis herself with the name Black Mare, who had never known fear in the face of battle, met Antiope, the Great General of the Amazons, and fell in love for the first and only time."





	of all stars the most beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> title is, of course, from Sappho.

Menalippe knew she was a good soldier. When the shield well fell at Antioch, she held the gap alone until the forces from Damascus filled the breach. Many of her sisters fell in that battle, but the offensive at Antioch drew enemy forces from the long siege at Constantinople. She found strength in the knowledge of a battle well-fought and the pride she had in the dignity of her sisters who had fallen. They had shown great honour.

Across the sea, Hippolyta and her cadre of bodyguards, the highest honour for the best among them, executed a daring raid on Alexandria, riding for three days without sleep across the desert and striking a crucial blow in the war. When the news reached Menalippe’s regiment, the camp rejoiced and they were all able to steel themselves for the long march through dangerous lands to Smyrna. It was at Smyrna that Menalippe, who had slain Telamon at the Battle of the Boar, who had been blessed by Artemis herself with the name Black Mare, who had never known fear in the face of battle, met Antiope, the Great General of the Amazons, and fell in love for the first and only time.

It was not that Menalippe had never had lovers before. Nikoleta and her had trained together and still shared a bed on occasion. She had grieved the loss of Ourania, her first kiss fallen at the Battle of Salonica. She had taken the Hero Theseus as her lover on campaign in Athens, as they had led Athena’s devoted to victory against the enemy.

Antiope was different. She shone among a sea of Amazonian bodies scarred by war, her skin bronze with oil. Her hair was long and golden, worn in weaving braids that hung from her helm. Menalippe looked on her and saw a goddess in flesh, the true daughter of the gods come to join the Amazons in battle. There was no one else to her. Despite her exhaustion and her yearning for human comfort, she took no lover in the army camps of Smyrna in the days after she met the general. No one could replace Antiope in her affections.

She met the General when she came to the command tent to give her report from Antioch. She kneeled before Hippolyta, resplendent in her armour and furs and flanked by bodyguards, and bowed her head.

“I bring news of the battle in Antioch, my queen,” she said, keeping her eyes trained on her queen’s battle-rough sandals.

“Rise, Menalippe.” Hippolyta said, her deep voice ragged at the edges. “I have heard of your bravery from our Damascene sisters. You are honoured among us.”

She stood, clasping her hands behind her back. The command tent bustled with messengers coming and going, clerks scribbling notes, attendants preparing Hippolyta’s meal and camp bed. Hippolyta sat on a long wooden bench by a wooden table covered in maps and wooden counters that showed troop movement, the position of their allies and enemies. She dismissed her bodyguards with a wave of the hand and raised a wooden cup of wine.

“Come, sister, do not stand on ceremony.” She said, sipping from the cup. “I know you are tired from your long march, and you must be thirsty. Sit.”

She sat on the bench opposite, and poured herself wine from the pewter pitcher on the table. 

“Thank you, Hippolyta,” she said. Aside from the titles of officers, Amazons had no titles, no family names. They were all sisters, and distinguished between themselves by name, and the honour they were due.

“Come sister,” Hippolyta said. “How fare the battalion of the Black Mare? I tire of stories of the war, I wish to hear more of my sisters.”

Menalippe smiled. It was an honour to hear the battalion named for her. She had led them for years now, and they had become strong, determined soldiers under her guidance, and she was glad to hear them recognised.

“They fare well, Hippolyta.” She said, sipping her wine. “Gerania and Marte have taken a third lover, the girl they call Zulia.”

“I have heard of her. Gerania is a sly dog, to find such beautiful lovers. I do not know what will ever slow her down.” Hippolyta said, with a raised eyebrow. Menalippe laughed.

The door to the tent suddenly blew open, and a tall Amazon Menalippe did not recognise strode into the tent, removing her helm in one smooth, practiced movement, her golden braids shaking loose. She was in full battle dress, the leather clearly well-worn. At her hip hung a sword that Menalippe recognised, even if she did not know the wearer. The sword was Andreia, Courage, the second sword forged by Amazon hands, the sword designed by Heapheateus at Aphrodite’s bequest to see the Amazons through the long war. Only one would carry that sword. She stood and bowed, the honour a woman gave to a sister she recognised as due great respect.

“General Antiope,” she said. When she looked up, the general was looking at her in surprise. Menalippe held her gaze. Antiope had striking blue eyes, like a glacier, and they softened her sharp cheekbones, her tightly braided hair. She was beautiful. Menalippe would have fallen to her knees if it was not inappropriate to try and worship a woman in front of her true sister. Instead Menalippe held her deep bow, looking up through her lashes. Antiope licked her lips.

“Elder sister, who is this?” she asked. Hippolyta shook her head and laughed.

“Let the woman stand, Antiope. This is Menalippe, the Black Mare. She has come from Antioch.”

“Relax, soldier,” Antiope said and Menalippe straightened.

“Gods above and below, I just got her to sit and relax. She was telling me of Gerania’s new conquest.”

“Another one? The enemy cuts off her hand at Damascus and she finds another lover. She has the gods’ own luck.”

“Perhaps not luck,” Menalippe cut in, and smiled slyly when they both looked at her. “They say she is very good with the hand she has left.”

There was a pause, and then Hippolyta snorted loudly, dissolving into laughter, slapping her thigh in enjoyment. Antiope had to sit down and brace her hands on her knees to finish laughing.

“I like you, little one,” she said, pointing at her with her free hand while she reached for the wine.  

They talked well into the night, eating from Hippolyta’s table. Eventually, inevitably, they debated the war. Hippolyta moved counters on the maps, drawing plans in the air with her sun-bronzed fingers, describing the victories they would achieve. Antiope argued, and moved the counters in disagreeable ways, predicting ambush and defeat and failure at every turn. It was a pattern familiar to Menalippe. Antiope and Hippolyta were the only true sisters of the Amazons, the first among them formed of the same clay, but all Amazons found their spirit sister, the woman they would not be a lover to but who would plan with them, who would disagree with them from love rather than anger. Menalippe contributed what she knew from the front in Mesopotamia, and drank, watching Antiope’s fingers move counters. They were decorated in the fine silver scars of a hard fighter, a woman who never stopped training, who accepted the pain that came from constant practice.

Eventually, Hippolyta yawned and waved away another one of Antiope’s objections.

“Enough Antiope, you will make an old woman of me before my time. Let us sleep, and we will agree the next offensive in the morning, when we have not had so much wine.”

“You are not a better tactician hungover,” Antiope said wryly, but Hippolyta smiled and finished her cup of wine.

“Perhaps, but you are not any better at arguing with me when you are hungover either,” she said. “You should walk the hero of Antioch to her tent. I do not want to lose a fine soldier because we sent her home in her cups.”

Menalippe stood, and found herself only a little unsteady. She did not want to refuse the escort though, especially when Antiope held her elbow in a warm, calloused hand.

“Thank you Hippolyta,” she said, and tried to bow, only to stumble sideways. It was only a few steps, but Antiope slid her arm through hers.

“Come, little one.” Antiope said fondly, and led her out of the queen’s tent to the camp. Antiope’s body was warm, and she was beautiful, so Menalippe pointed in the direction of the tent she shared with Stavra, her tent-mate since training, and let herself be led.

“You are very beautiful,” Menalippe said, when they reached her tent. She was not that drunk, just heady with a good night’s meal and companionship, the friendly touch of a beautiful woman. It was a welcome respite from battle,

“Thank you,” Antiope said, and brushed some of Menalippe’s dark hair behind her ear, letting her fingertips brush the edge of her cheekbones. “Do you have a lover?”

“There is no one in my heart but you,” she said honestly, and Antiope laughed, but it was a kind laugh that was not at her expense.

“You decide too quickly, my beauty.” Antiope said, and Menalippe shivered to be called a beauty by her. They were standing close in the soft light of one of the camp torches, only a few metres from Menalippe’s bed, that she already yearned to have Antiope share, to find passion in. She could imagine it already, exploring her soft, bronze-bright skin with her lips, her fingers. “There are many beautiful Amazons here in Smyrna. Perhaps you should take some time to compare.”

“I will not want any of them but you,” Menalippe said. Antiope moved her hand from her cheek, to touch her lips gently. Menalippe’s let her lips fall open, wanting nothing more than Antiope to keep touching her. She drew her hand back.

“Sleep well, little one,” Antiope said, with a sly smile, already stepping away. It took Menalippe a few moments to recover her senses, to realise that Antiope was walking away from her, already falling into shadow.

“I would sleep better with you in my bed!” She called after her. Antiope only laughed, and waved at her without turned around.

Menalippe fell into her bed with a groan, too frustrated and tired to pleasure herself and determined to prove to Antiope that she had been truthful. She fell asleep thinking of her fingers, calloused from her sword, but so gentle when she touched her.

The next day, Menalippe led her battalion through sword drills in the training squares outside camp just after dawn. They had new recruits, Amazons come from training to replace their soldiers fallen at Antioch, and she drilled them hard, knowing they would have orders to march out again soon. At breakfast outside the provisions tent, she took her flatbread with honey and walked until she found Antiope. She was eating one-handed, crouched on her hunkers, talking with her mouth full as she described an ambush to a group of squad leaders, drawing in the sandy ground with her free hand. Her audience listened entranced. The story was good, interesting, funny in parts, and better yet, was good tactics.

Menalippe crouched at the edge of the circle to listen. The squad leaders were listening avidly, drawn in by Antiope’s husky voice and charisma. Others might say Hippolyta was the star of the Amazons, but it was not Hippolyta that she wanted.

During a pause in the story, Antiope met her eyes across the circle and raised her eyebrows. Menalippe casually took a bite of her flatbread and looked right back, waiting. She had wanted to prove to Antiope that she would not lose interest with a night’s sleep, which she had, which meant the next move was not hers to make. She licked honey off her fingers, and Antiope looked at her with recognisable heat in her eyes.

“Ladies,” Antiope said, standing with a nod to the squad leaders. “May the Gods look well on us.”

The women nodded, or murmured their own prayers in agreement. Menalippe slowly rose to standing, and Antiope walked across to her.

“I have taken some time,” Menalippe said, when Antiope raised an eyebrow at her. “And I believe you are the most beautiful of all the Amazons.”

One of the women nearby snickered, but Menalippe didn’t care. Everyone gossiped, and being gossiped about as head over heels in love with Antiope was hardly an insult. Antiope put a hand on her hip.

“You were training your squadron this morning,” she said, with an ironic smile. “Are you saying I am the most lovely out of a handful of new recruits and a squadron fresh from the front?”

Menalippe shrugged.

“It’s still a compliment.”

Antiope shook her head.

“Maybe you need more practice at compliments” she said fondly.

Menalippe smiled at that, recognising the spark in Antiope’s eye. She felt the same as she did in battle, or riding, like her blood sang, like she was doing as she was meant to.

“Would you like me to practice on you?” she asked. “I’m sure I can manage some attempts at poetry.”

Antiope laughed, and reached out towards her.

“Walk with me, beautiful,” she said. It was still early morning, Amazons rose early to train and eat before the sunrise, and the sun was low in the sky, casting the vast tent city of the Amazon camp in the soft light of morning. Menalippe let Antiope put her arm through hers, and they walked away from the busy training fields and provisions tents. Antiope was of a height with her, perhaps slightly taller, but they walked at the same pace, and Menalippe knew other Amazons were looking at them. It was not uncommon for women, lovers or friends, to walk arm in arm among the camps, but Antiope was famous, honoured and beautiful and a hero of the war. Menalippe was not insecure; she was known to many, especially the Eastern battalions who she had fought beside, and she was a distinguished soldier, but Antiope was something else altogether. Besides, Amazons were not a private people on a whole, living their lives on the move or in the pretend privacy of battle camps.

At the edge of the camp, Antiope stopped, and Menalippe stood with her, holding her arm gently, looking out over the fields of wheat that stretched out behind them. It was beginning to lighten, the sun turning from the delicate pink and blue of the morning to the golden light of the day.

“Apollo’s chariot moves well today,” she said, to have something to say, and Antiope nodded. She turned towards her, taking Menalippe’s face in both her hands, considering her seriously. She made no move to kiss her, and she seemed serious, thoughtful, rather than romantic, so Menalippe waited patiently. She could be patient. Antiope, her blue eyes, the tiny furrow of thoughtfulness in her brow, those were worth waiting for.

Her hands on her cheeks were gentle, her fingers gently rubbing against the soft skin near her eyes. It was shockingly intimate, and Menalippe breathed gently, her lips parting.

“I do not take lovers lightly,” Antiope said, barely above a whisper. Menalippe reached up and threaded her fingers through Antiope’s, drawing one of her hands away from her face. Her hand was worked in hard skin and scars, nails cut close to the quick, and it was beautiful, cool in Menalippe’s own hand.

“I would not like to be taken lightly,” she said. She was not a green, newly-formed Amazon anymore. She was a soldier, a commander of her own battalion, the hero of Antioch. The days of her youth, when she had taken lovers lightly, and Stavra had wondered if she would ever sleep two nights in her own bed, were past, those days behind her. She looked on Antiope, a mature woman, the barely visible dust of wrinkles at the corner of her eyes, and knew that she was ready to choose her final lover.

Finally, Antiope leaned forward and, their hands still intertwined, they kissed. The sensation of it rushed through Menalippe’s body; she felt the rush of adrenaline in her fingertips, in her breasts and cunt, and she returned the kiss fiercely, tightening her grip on her hand.

They kissed for an age at the edge of the camp, until the sun was high, and the heat growing oppressive. Antiope held her close, and they kissed until they were both gasping, each touch of her fingers like burning ice against her sensitive skin. Eventually, they broke apart reluctantly, detangling themselves by parts, Antiope withdrawing the arm around Menalippe’s waist that held her close, Menalippe releasing the hand that grasped her shoulder. Eventually, they were only trading slow, small kisses back and forth, only their mouths touching, both of them smiling.

“I go to the naval review today, but I return tonight. Come and dine with Hippolyta and I?” Antiope asked.

Menalippe leaned in for another kiss, and then nodded, still smiling.

“I train the Eastern battalions in stealth today,” she said, “but I’ll be at Hippolyta’s tent for supper.”

 

&&&&

 

Menalippe had expected some announcement, or perhaps an acknowledgement of the new resolution between herself and Antiope, but the supper in Hippolyta’s tent passed much as it had the previous night. The wine flowed less freely this night, and dinner, lamb with rice, was simple. Antiope discussed the naval review with Hippolyta, the twenty new penteconters already at sea, and two triremes in dry dock, soon to join the war. The discussion was quick-fire, Antiope and Hippolyta clearly used to speaking tactically in their own language, but they turned to her with questions on the naval battles she had seen in the east, and Hippolyta deferred to Antiope’s knowledge with ease when pushed. No argument felt unpleasant, and Hippolyta had the strong laugh of a woman at ease. The war was at the natural lull of winter, when the camps retrenched and waited for better ground, and civilians returned to their homes. But Amazons had no home but the war and each other, so winter was a time to train, heal, and reconnect with sisters who had grown distant, or were new altogether.

As the evening grew dark, Hippolyta told a series of dirty jokes to make her laugh, and Antiope scowl, before waving at them.

“Go, go, before I’m made sick by your affection. Antiope you have a tent for this,” Hippolyta said with a sly grin. Antiope rolled her eyes, and stood, reaching for Menalippe, who grasped her forearm and rose.

“May the gods spare me from my gossiping sister,” Antiope said dryly, and Hippolyta chuckled, sipping the last of her wine.

“The gods saw fit to grant me a sense of humour,” Hipployta said, still sipping her wine. Menalippe bowed shallowly, which made Hippolyta grin.

“If you are to be my sister’s lover, you should get out of the habit of bowing to me,” she said. “It will become very tiresome.”

Menalippe smiled at her, and resolved to continue bowing, at least for a little while longer. She was a soldier, but it was important to disagree with your commanders, from time to time.

Outside the queen’s tent, the air was beginning to cool, and torches were being lit along the paths of the camp, and outside the larger communal tents, where the younger Amazons would be drinking late into the night. One of the night guards walking past raised a hand to Menalippe, and she nodded in return. They had fought together outside of Isfahan shortly after her promotion to Lokhagos, and kept the same passing friendship so many Amazon knew: that of a comrade stationed elsewhere. After the guard had passed, Antiope turned to her and raised a hand to lightly touch the side of her face, tracing a knuckle along the bones of her temple.

“Hippolyta did not need to say those things. You do not need to come back with me if you do not wish to.” she said.

Menalippe rolled her eyes.

“Your tent will be nicer than mine,” she said, and pulled at Antiope’s hand, pulling her towards the command tents.

One of the runners had lit the lamps at the table in Antiope’s tent, and it filled the space with a warm orange glow, reflecting off of the jug of wine and throwing the shapes of the wicker camp furniture, the single low bed, into shadowy relief. Antiope hesitated in the doorway, and then  paused at the table, where rolled reports sat waiting, tablets with the scratchy marks of a clerk’s record-keeping piled around maps. Menalippe watched her skim read a few of the summaries on the clay tablets, watching the shape of her lovely mouth twist in thought.

Menalippe stepped up behind her, waiting for her to straighten fully before letting her fingers skim lightly over the swell of bone at the base of her neck.

“Are you nervous, general?” she teased. It was daunting, to be in the tent of the general, a woman who intimidated her, overawed her, but she thought she would rise to the occasion, if Antiope let her. Antiope set down one of the tablet reports on the table, and the sound of it seemed impossibly loud in the quiet tent. She turned and caught Menalippe’s hand, lifting it to kiss her finger tips.

“No, lovely one, I am not nervous.” she said quietly, before finally closing the distance between them and raising Menalippe’s chin into a kiss.

This kiss was nothing like the gentle kiss they had shared at the edge of camp that morning. There was no hesitance here, so lack of surety in the aim and direction of Antiope’s affections. She bit her lip, gently but with firm pressure that made Menalippe breathe out into the kiss in a small gasp. The slide of their mouths against each other was a delicious friction that set Menalippe’s skin alight, the thin hair on her arms rising into goosebumps. One of Antiope’s hands slide across the steep plane of her ribs and, then, dipped to rub the pad of her thumb across the exposed skin between her kilt and leather cuirass. Menalippe didn’t want to let herself be passive in this, and the first feeling of Antiope’s fingers against her skin pushed her to put her hands onto Antiope’s hips, tucking her fingers into the leather laces of her armour, pulling on them to bring them within a single breath’s space, their chests touching. It felt electric even through their leathers. Antiope pushed harder into the kiss, her teeth catching on her lips, and her tongue curling around hers.

Menalippe desperately wanted wanted to savour every moment of the kiss, but it seemed seconds until they were desperately pulling at each others laces, yanking their leathers over their head and dropping them to the floor of the tent. Menalippe turned to sit on the bed, but the change in position, and then sudden turn took both of them with them, tumbling with a sudden gasp and a grunt on the bed. It wasn’t graceful; Antiope collapsed on top of her, putting an elbow in her stomach, and a nose uncomfortably pressed against her collarbone.

“Oof,” Antiope said, and when she pushed herself up onto her hands, Menalippe laughed, and wrapped her legs, her sandals still on, around her hips to pull her closer, their bodies warm and pressed together.

“You are a menace,” Antiope growled, nipping at her neck with fierce bites, the sweet pain of it making her gasp breathily. They were only in the linens they wore underneath armour and their sandals, and Menalippe could stand it no more and shoved Antiope back so that she could yank her sandals off, undoing the laces furiously. Antiope soon saw her meaning and pulled her own sandals off, tossing them off the bed into a pile by her table, but she stopped Menalippe’s hands when she went to pull off her linens.

“No, my dear, let me,” Antiope said gently, in a quiet whisper that made a shiver of anticipation rush through her. Slowly, with her fine, heavily-scarred soldier’s hands, she unwrapped the linens Menalippe has worn under her armour since she was trained, unwrapping her breast band, and slowly pulling down her subligaculum, leaving her naked and gasping in Antiope’s bed.

Antiope crawled up her body, her light blue eyes warm with desire, before taking one of her breasts into her mouth, her tongue playing at the nipple. Menalippe groaned, gripping tightly to the sheets of the bed, knowing her knuckles were white. She loved the feeling of someone at her breasts, the waves of anticipation and pleasure it sent through her. Antiope hummed happily, scraping her teeth along Menalippe’s nipple and her fingernails along the top of her thigh at the same time. She was sure it could not be the length of time she thought it was, but it felt like an unbearable long time before Antiope’s fingers finally pressed against and then into her cunt. It was intoxicatingly good, and Menalippe could not help but push her hips into Antiope’s hand, chasing the sensation of fullness, the friction of her fingers in and out of her.

“Oh, gods,” she said, more quietly than expected, and Antiope moved to bite at the underside of her breast, the curve of her stomach, sliding a third perfect finger into her, her thumb circling at the top of her cunt. The pressure built inexorably, and set Menalippe to breathing loudly, a wordless sound escaping from her on every breath out. Antiope was grinning, and that was half of it, at least, the image of Antiope grinning as she fucked her fingers deeply between Menalippe’s spread legs.

“Menalippe,” Antiope said, her voice warm and sweet, like honey sinking into the wordless, passion-filled soup of Menalippe’s mind, and then pressed her thumb tightly against her clit, her whole hand pressing, sending shocks outward into her hands and feet.

“Ah!” she shouted, just on the edge of a scream, her legs locking tightly around Antiope’s hand as she curled inward, her whole body clenching around the feeling of pleasure and fullness.

As her muscles released, seconds later, Antiope withdrew her hand, leaving a wet trail on the inside of Menalippe’s thigh. She sighed deeply, enjoying the after-effects sparking throughout her body, the feeling of coming down from a high place.

“Come here,” she said gently, pulling Antiope up by her dishevelled linens, pushing them off her chest until she was completely naked, golden in the soft light of the lamp. She ran her hands over her shoulders, and dragged her down to meet her for a deep kiss, the strong press of their lips together helping Menalippe through the final feelings of her orgasm.

The bed wasn’t big enough to roll over in, but Menalippe made an attempt at it, forcing them onto their sides, and then pushing Antiope onto her back as she slid down her legs. Antiope’s legs were gorgeous, with a soldier’s tan that began high on her thighs and the rough skin on her calves where her sandals tied, bruises from training and scars from dangerous living, from the long war of their life. They were Amazon’s legs, the legs of a warrior, and Menalippe wanted nothing more than to bury her face between them, feel the muscles of Antiope’s thighs work.

Antiope smiled at her, and lifted her leg to hook a foot over her shoulder and pull her in.

“Don't take your time, beautiful.” she said and Menalippe grinned before running her hands up the inside of her thighs **and** bending her head to press her tongue to the top of her cunt. Menalippe had always enjoyed this, the sharp, musky taste and the sound of someone else’s joy above her, and she circled her tongue more intently, using her fingers to pet lightly at the wetness of Antiope’s cunt, teasing. Her hips circled, chasing the pressure, and Menalippe had to work harder to keep her tongue centred, laving at her quickly hardening clit.

She heard Antiope gasp loudly, and felt one of her hands grab her hair, pulling tightly to keep her close, and Menalippe slowly slid one finger all the way into her, holding back a grin when the gasp turned into a sharp “ah!”.

She rubbed her finger against the inside of her cunt and replaced her tongue with her mouth to suck, rising with Antiope as her whole body arched off the bed, her face screwed up in pleasure. When she felt the muscles of Antiope’s legs relax, she ran her tongue over her cunt one more time, making Antiope gasp and pull away, over-sensitised, her hand releasing from her hair. For a moment, Menalippe let her head rest on the top of Antiope’s thigh, and they both breathed together, catching their breath.

Eventually, Antiope stood, crossing the floor of the tent fully naked, and dipped a cloth in a pitcher of water, passing it to Menalippe to pass across her face and both of them to wipe their hands, before laying in the bed, curled around each other. Menalippe tucked her face into the soft curve at the base of Antiope’s neck, breathing in the smell of her body, her sweat, the sweetness of her skin.

The night was warm, and Antiope pulled over a light blanket over them before Menalippe drifted off and remembered nothing else.

&&&

On their last day of leave in the spring, her and Stavra spend the day together packing up their tent. Stavra had been re-assigned to the Western Army, a promotion to manage the corps of healers on the front in Rusicade, and the battalion of the Black Mare had been sent East, with the Army of the East under Antiope’s command. The fighting would be fierce there, come the early summer months, but her soldiers were prepared, and it was lucky to be under Antiope’s command. It would be good to be with Antiope, and share her tent, her bed, as they had every evening they’ve been at winter camp, but Stavra had been her tent-mate since they were young. Stavra had berated her when she injured herself and bound her wounds, splinted her arm the year she broke it. They had stayed up late together, drinking wine in the door of their tent, lit by lamp light. They knew each other's secrets, their strange pleasures and favorite foods, daily habits. They would write, and see each other when winter camp was made, but it would be a long summer without Stavra by her side.

Late in the evening, when all of Menalippe’s armour had been cleaned, treated and folded into her rattan chest with the small sum of her belongings, Stavra sat on the floor of the tent, leaning against the bed, holding her cup of wine. They were both oiled, from the long process of treating their leather armour, and Stavra’s dark skin shone in the flicker of the lamplight, illuminating the gold cuffs in her braids. She raised her cup in a false toast and Menalippe sat down next to her, the pitcher of wine between them.

“To you, Mena, for managing to bed a general well enough to become her lieutenant.” She said, and laughed when Menalippe blushed furiously.

“I am not _her_ lieutenant,” she said, when Stavra finished laughing.

“Quite right,” she said, letting her head thunk back against the end of the bed. “Don’t let any of the fools in the Army of the East talk down to you because you share Antiope’s bed.”

“I don’t think they would dare,” Menalippe said. “Adrasteia made a joke at war council yesterday and Antiope nearly ran her through.”

“Adrasteia has been hit on the head too many times,” Stavra said. “And that’s my professional opinion.”

Menalippe snorted, and drank more of the wine.

“I won’t have you to defend me anymore,” she said, looking across at Stavra, who shook her head, her braids swinging.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re the soldier, you always protected me. You mean you won’t have someone to bandage you when you’ve got yourself injured again.”

“I’ll try to save my injuries for winter time, for old times sake,” Menalippe said, which made Stavra chuckle.

“I’d prefer you didn’t get injured at all, old friend,” she said, and Menalippe raised her cup.

“To no injuries then, and the honour of battles won,” she said. Stavra raised her own cup in return.

“Victory and peace,” she said, and they both drank deeply, not knowing they went to the last summer campaign of the long war of their lives.

 

&&&

 

“Heave!” came the shout from above, and Menalippe pulled on the end of the pulley rope, bracing the her body against the heavy weight. On the other side, more Amazons pulled at the load-bearing rope, slowly by surely lifting one of the great foundation stones into place. All around them, Amazons laboured at the half-finished buildings of their new home. Themiscrya was a paradise, but it was a paradise they would build for their purposes.

Menalippe lived with Antiope, in one of the early hastily constructed houses of wood, and so was tasked to the communal buildings, while others worked with old comrades and tent-mates to finished their own homes. Today, they were hauling the finally-finished foundations of the great hall to their resting places, where the stonemasons would finish them and create the roots of the columns, still half-done in a workshop. They had all had to learn new skills in their new lives, and if building was the work needed from her, Menalippe was happy to turn her hands to the labour.

Finally, with a horrible grinding noise, the stone fell into place, and Menalippe was able to release the rope, rubbing her hands together to soothe the reddened skin. At the base of the hill where the hall stood, or rather, would stand, she could see Antiope on the path, climbing the side of the hill. Antiope still wore her battle leathers, even as they all accustomed to life in peacetime. Her skin was paler than Menalippe had ever seen it before, now that they did not spend all day in the saddle, and after the long months of Antiope’s convalescence in the healer’s tents. She had been injured in the final battle that had ended the war, and still walked with a slight limp, although Stavra promised it would fade. Even against her pale skin, the light of her golden hair was brilliant, and, as always, it made Menalippe smile to see her.

She lifted a hand to wave to her, and Antiope waved back, her limp barely visible as she took the last steps up the steepest part of the hill two to a stride.

“Have the foundations been placed?” Antiope said, when she was close. Menalippe nodded.

“That was the last of the stones. The masons complete the columns next, and we work on the walls.” she said, rubbing her hands together.

Antiope extended an arm.

“Maybe you would do me the honour of escorting me then,” she said, and Menalippe took her arm without thinking. It had been nearly a full year since they had become lovers at the Amazon’s winter camp, although winter seemed never to come to Themiscrya. It had been the long summer of campaign, and the end of the war, the short journey to Themiscrya, the long months of worry over Antiope’s leg and the hard days of working to build a place where the Amazons could live in peace. They had weathered all that together, too much together to second-guess one another.

“You hardly need an escort, my dear,” she said, even as she felt Antiope lean on her on the curved steps.

“True,” Antiope said. “But I had something I wanted to ask you.”

They were on the flat part of the path now, on the packed earth that would later become their square, when the buildings were complete. You could see the sea from here, the bright blue off the edge of the cliffs, and the shapes of homes half-finished, Amazons hard at work. The bright sun was warm, but Antiope’s hands were clammy, as if she was nervous.

Finally, she stopped them where the shape of the hills gave the best view over the cliffs onto the beach and the clear sea, turning to face Menalippe, still holding her hands.

“My dear, it has been nearly a year we have been lovers,” she said. “You have been a strong soldier on campaign, and a good builder in peacetime. Would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

There was a long pause, when Menalippe thought about it. From the place they stood, she could see the town they were building, the empty place that would become the great hall, a strange scarring absence on the skyline. Half of Amazons still camped in tents, and they all hoped that the rain would hold off for more weeks. This was peacetime: the hard work to build and maintain, the bond of comrades turned to tilling the soil. To be married in peacetime was not a dream she had ever had as a young soldier. The honour of a good death in battle was all that had awaited her, and all she had seen in her future.

Now, thousands of glorious days stretched out before her, plans unspooling into a seemingly unending unknown future.

When she looked back at Antiope, the skin around her eyes had crinkled in worry, but she otherwise remained stoic.

“What do you say, Mena. Will you marry me?”

She smiled, and Menalippe reached across to place her palm against her cheek, her fingers lightly brushing her cheekbones. It reminded her of the day they at stood at the edge of camp, when she had pursued Antiope and been victorious.

“Yes, my love, I will marry you,” she said. “But not today.”

Antiope frowned.

“Then when?” she asked.

Menalippe looked up at the hill, the skeleton of the place that would be the grand hall of their queen, where they would mourn deaths and celebrate marriages, lives, the creation and learning of Amazons. Already, Hippolyta, her child on a sling on her back, planned for her precious daughter’s presentation, her formal naming, her first leathers. The promise of a future, glorious and honourable but more importantly, happy, could be felt in the air every moment on Themiscrya, could be heard in the sea breeze. Menalippe thought she saw, in that moment, the bronze-bright place it would become.

“I will marry you when the great hall is complete,” she said.

Antiope asked for her hand every day for a year. It became a strange ritual, observed by ther other Amazons with humour or affection. Hippolyta would greet her with a cheerful “So, have you married my sister yet?” in the mornings, and Amazons she barely knew would ask her about her engagement.

And yet, Antiope asked her every day. She would ask over bread in the morning, or when they ate lunch in the communal tents. Menalippe would be working at the construction sites, trying her hand at carpentry, and Antiope would shout up the scaffolding, asking her to marry her.

She answered the same every day, quietly when they were together, loudly when she had to shout to be heard over the carpenter’s saws: “I will marry you when the great hall is complete.”

Menalippe was one of the women on the pulleys when the roof of the hall was lifted into place, straining against the weight, all of them struggling against gravity and the weakness of their own muscles to slowly, slowly, winch the huge blocks of the roof up onto the columns, each one sliding perfectly into place. When the last stone was placed, a cheer went up around the island, and they celebrated long into the night, drunk on the first wine of the harvests, still bitter and rich, and full of the new victory over time and the elements. They danced around the bonfires, and said praise to the goddesses. Her and Antiope made love by lamplight, on the bed they shared, both drunk and happy, giggling into kisses.

In the afternoon, when their hangovers had faded, they walked to the Hall of the Amazons, and stood hand in hand before Hippolyta, crowned in all her glory.

Antiope kissed her hand, her lips soft against Menalippe’s palm, avoiding the hard calluses from a year of hard labour and a lifetime of war before that.

“I swear that I will fight with you, serve you and live with you, my love. I will attend you in sickness and health, in success and failure, in war and peace. I will be your shield to arrows and your sword to enemies.” she said, her clear general’s voice carrying across the audience.

Diana watched them from between the legs of her tutor, her dark eyes wide with wonder. All their sisters had gathered in the hall and it was warm with the light of the lamps, sunlight that streamed through the columns. Antiope wore full parade gear, and Menalippe had pinned on her lieutenant's chevrons, long sat collecting dust in their house, both of them with their swords strapped at their waist.

“If I am parted from you by death, I will wait for you in the land of the gods, and we will feast in the halls of Olympus with the heroes of old. I am Antiope, General of the Amazons, and this I swear to you.”

Hippolyta reached forward to clap Antiope on the shoulder.

“I witness your oath Antiope, may you be struck down if you break it. Menalippe, called the Black Mare, Lieutenant of the Amazons, have you called a witness?”

Stavra stepped forward from the crowd, glorious in her rarely-worn army.

“My queen, I will witness for Menalippe.”

Hippolyta nodded, and Menalippe took Antiope’s hand, bending to kiss her palm. She had not dared to dream of this moment when she had first seen Antiope, but she overflowed with joy, with peace, to marry this woman before all the Amazons, honoured by her queen, in a hall she had laboured to build.

“I swear that I will fight with you, serve you and live with you, my love. I will attend you in sickness and health, in success and failure, in war and peace. I will be your shield to arrows and your sword to enemies.” she said. Later she worried she had not spoken loud enough, but all she could focus on was Antiope’s face, her unstoppable smile.

“If I am parted from you by death, I will wait for you in the land of the gods, and we will feast in the halls of Olympus with the heroes of old. I am Menalippe, the Black Mare, Lieutenant of the Amazons, and this I swear to you.”

Stavra had the voice of a woman used to laughing, dancing with amusement.

“I witness your oath Menalippe, may you be struck down if you break it.” she said.

Hippolyta put her other hand on Menalippe’s shoulder.

“Sisters, friends, raise your hands, and be joyous. We are your witnesses!”

Together, they raised their joined hands, and a great wordless cheer went up from the crowd, even Diana whooping and clapping. Hippolyta laughed and scooped her daughter up into her arms, placing her on her shoulders.

“Now, we celebrate!” Hippolyta said, but Menalippe did not hear her, for in that second Antiope had swept her up in a deep kiss.


End file.
